Meantime, upon the turret roof I was enduring very tediously the flight of these anxious minutes. The spot we used to call the Crow's Nest is marked plain to the unaided eye by a gap in the woods that cover the low ridge of hills along which runs the road Exeter way from Holroyd Grange. This break in the line of trees did I watch, it may be, for no more than ten minutes; but if it be remembered that I knew not yet what was the end of the struggle in the hall, that a thousand accidents suggested by the active mind to the unwilling heart might delay or prevent Philip's keeping of his promise, and that even if his coming availed to restore Ned to the favor of His Highness, my brother must himself run great risk at his enemies' hands, it will be found little surprising that those minutes were to me tense, full, and slow-footed as so many hours.  
At length in the gap appeared something—a horse was it, or a cow? Certainly there was no man upon its back. But it stopped in the open space. For at least the fiftieth time I raised to my eye the old spy-glass Ned had given so many years ago to his little friend, and with its aid I could now see that it was indeed a horse, with a man that led it by the bridle, and seemed, I thought, to be gazing toward me. I laid down the glass, and in a passionate desire by some means to signify to him the need there was that he should with haste cover the three miles that lay between us of broken country, I seized the cords that held the flag aloft, and, loosing that which passes through the little pulley atop from the pin to which it was fast, I pulled first on the one and then on the other cord in such wise that I made the banner run down and up the mast again and again like a flag gone mad.
 
And then once more through the glass I saw the man leap upon the back of his horse, wave his hat to my signal, and disappear behind the trees the way he had come.
 
And I knew then that he would not be long; for he had gone the way to take the shortest track to Drayton, and Philip, though he had no love of horses, could, like all his family, ride when he pleased both fearlessly and well. I left the flag flying, and descended the winding stair with heart much lightened, to meet at its foot my father.
 
"He is coming, sir," I cried. "Philip is coming! I have seen him."
 
And then I learned from him all that had happened below; and, hearing that Ned was arrested for his attack on M. de Rondiniacque, was for going forthwith to find him and to give him what comfort I was able. This, however, my father would not permit, but led me to his own chamber, where from the window we watched for Philip's coming. And although he made his return with a quickness truly wonderful, when the nature not only of the country he traversed, but also of the horse that carried him, come to be considered, so that we saw him close at hand before the Prince's half-hour was expired, yet the time seemed long indeed that he was coming, and the space left for conference when he was come appeared all too short. Having seen us waving signals to him as he forced his jaded nag up the grassy hill behind the house, he came at once to my father's chamber, where a few words told him how the matter stood. But when it was now time to descend and meet His Highness in the hall, the half-hour being expired, Sir Michael would by no means consent that his son should accompany him, having perhaps but little hope that his surrender might be avoided, yet keeping it, as it were, a last piece to move in the game. But it was good to stand by and hear these two men, so diverse in purpose, in honor so alike, and to feel in my heart so sweet a glow of pride in my own people. For I, with most at stake, could say no word to urge Philip's sacrificing himself. But they were agreed that no claim nor duty must be counted so great as that of shielding, and even, if it might be done, of restoring the man who had held his own honor second to theirs.
 
And so Sir Michael went to meet the enemy, telling me, as together we descended the stair, that I was his second line of support, and that Philip, waiting above, was his reserve, in case the struggle should begin to go against him.
 
In the hall we found awaiting us the Prince and Mr. Bentinck. In His Highness's countenance I thought were signs of a humor more kindly than my father would have had me to expect; for his aspect recalled rather the man that gave me his sword than him that took from me the broken blade. I had but one glance at him, however, for as Sir Michael passed on to address the Prince, there came over me a very hot and comfortless sense of shame, along with a wish—vastly unreasonable—that they should not recognize my features. So I turned aside from my father, and rested my arm upon the mantel, while I gazed blankly upon the glowing logs that filled the hearth. And behind me I heard my father tell, in phrases now judicial, now eloquent, and at times even impassioned, the tale of those accidents and troubles which had brought, as he said, his old friend, young Royston, into this bog of His Highness's disfavor.
 
But before it was all told a hand touched me upon the shoulder, and a dry and guttural voice with the one word—"Mistress," made me turn and confront Mr. Bentinck. His keen eyes seemed to search my countenance for the answer to some doubt or question in his mind. "Pray tell me," he said at length, "where is the latter part of His Highness's sword?"
 
"It is here, Mr. Bentinck," I answered, laying my hand where I had concealed that pointed fragment of steel; "here; near the heart it shall surely pierce if Edward Royston come to harm amongst you."
 
"I did think," he said, "that you were that boy that braved us all. And I believe, moreover, that you had great part in the escape of the priest."
 
"I had indeed the greatest part of all," I answered, being now resolved to cast myself upon his mercy; "for without my share the man had been still fast in your hands. But oh, Mr. Bentinck," I continued, "why are you his enemy?"
 
"Enemy! Whose enemy?" cried Mr. Bentinck. "Is it Captain Royston's you mean?"
 
"Ay, his," I answered. "Oh! he told me that you loved him not, but withal has no ill word for you, declaring you always the most honest of His Highness's servants."
 
Mr. Bentinck here seemed to muse a little. And then—"I thank him," he said. "If he be the same, I were sorry to be his enemy."
 
"He is honest as the daylight!" I cried. "He has but wronged the seeming of his honor for another—and that other without fault but in appearance—as my father now makes plain to His Highness."
 
"Indeed, Mistress Drayton," he replied, speaking with a gentleness well-nigh tender, "I do hope he may." And with that he turned from me as if to rejoin His Highness. But I summoned all my daring to make a plea yet more fully feminine, being much emboldened thereto by the softness of his last words.
 
"Mr. Bentinck, Mr. Bentinck," I whispered eagerly, and he turned again. "Captain Royston and I were to be wed, if—if—" said I, and could say no more.
 
"Ah," said he, "if what?"
 
"If you—if His Highness destroy us not utterly," I replied. "Grant us your aid, Mr. Bentinck." And into these words I put, I do suppose, much prayerfulness of face, voice, and gesture. For he looked a moment very kindly on the clasped hands and streaming eyes that begged his help.
 
"Do not weep, mistress," he said. "You shall have all I may give," and so turned his back upon me.
 
And here the Prince came a little toward me. "It is truly a tale of romance, Sir Michael," he said. "Here was I vainly seeking the serpent, and, lo! there is none but Eve." And then to me: "Come hither, Mistress Eve," he said. So I went over to him, and made before him a courtesy very deep and humble. "I do like you better thus, child," he went on, "than booted and spurred. Is this a true history that I hear?"
 
"So please Your Highness," I answered, "'t is true as the Gospel."
 
"How so?" he asked, smiling. "You have not heard it."
 
"But it was my father," said I, "that told it."
 
At which reply the Prince appeared much pleased, for, addressing himself to Mr. Bentinck: "'T is indeed a pious family," he remarked, "and such mutual faith can hardly go with treason. And, on my conscience, William," he went on, "the tale has an appearance." Then, to my father: "If all this be true, Sir Michael, you are much abused."
 
"How that, Your Highness?" asked the old man.
 
"By a son," said the Prince, "departing from the faith of his fathers."
 
"It is between him and his Maker," replied Sir Michael, with a touch of pride.
 
"And by me," continued His Highness, "departing from the courtesy incumbent upon princes. Does that stand in the same awful arbitrament, Sir Michael?"
 
"If Your Highness do me right," said my father, "'t is between us two, and shall go no further."
 
"That is kindly said, sir," answered the Prince. "So, if this be all true—as it must be, if you have not all the art of deceiving the most naturally in the world—I must needs fling pardon broadcast, eh?"
 
"I do not see what other course is open to Your Highness," said my father.
 
But here the Prince's face grew vastly stern: "Except to this priest," he said, "who, if he has not aimed at my life, is at least my enemy, however honorable."
 
"My son?" asked Sir Michael; and my heart was sore to see the pallor of his cheek.
 
"Ay, sir, your son—I must have your son. Captain Royston's deed may become the man of heart, however ill it fits the office of the soldier. But your son is my open enemy. Must I lose both culprits?"
 
And so a shadow fell again upon us all, and with it a solemn silence, which endured, I believe, all the time that I was absent from the hall. Certain it is that when I returned in my brother's company not one of the three looked as if he had spoken.
 
When Philip stood before him, the Prince for a while eyed him with great keenness, which rejoiced me to see; for surely no man had ever words so eloquent to speak in his own defence as was my brother's pure and noble countenance.
 
"Do you come of your own will to see me?" His Highness at length enquired.
 
"I do," said my brother.
 
"And wherefore?" demanded the Prince.
 
"To take what blame I may from my friends," Philip answered.
 
"I have heard your story, sir," said the Prince. "If you would escape the fate that comes of ill company, describe to me now him that constrained you in this matter."
 
"I may not," replied Philip.
 
"Tell me, then," said His Highness, "what power he held over you."
 
"I must not," said Philip.
 
This reply seemed not a little to vex the Prince. "Must not!" he cried.
 
"Nay, then," said the priest gently, "an Your Highness like it better, I will not."
 
"'May not, must not, will not,'" said William, bitterly quoting his words; "by the rule of war, Sir Priest, I may hang you to that tree. Deny me not, for may can wax greater in other mouths."
 
"Hanging," says Philip very coolly, "is little likely to rob me of the power to hold my tongue."
 
Now during this strife, while I both trembled and admired, I had yet eyes to remark that Mr. Bentinck's gaze did wander to and fro between a paper he held in his hand and the countenance of this stanch brother of mine. At the time I knew not what it meant, but have since reason to believe it that same description of a priest that had been trodden by the heel of a prince, hid in a maiden's bosom, and feloniously perused by a gentleman of France. Finding in it little likeness to the man before him, he proceeded to the execution of a small but vastly cunning ruse, to discover if the man whose description he held in his hand were indeed the plotter of the late murderous attack upon His Highness.
 
"Your Highness," said he sourly, "this subtile fellow does well know that this Francis,"—and here Mr. Bentinck glanced with some ostentation at the paper that was in his hand,—"or 'Marston,' as he is here named, with his round body and red periwig, is already in our hands. This aping of constancy is but a means to keep from himself the blame of a complicity that the other confesses."
 
"Nay, faith!" cried Philip, with an eagerness wholly innocent, "I knew not that he was taken."
 
At this His Highness laughed loud and right merrily. "Cunning William!" he said, as he patted Mr. Bentinck upon the shoulder, "your politic tricks are better than my threatenings." He then addressed Philip in a voice much softened: "Mr. Drayton," he said, "I ask your pardon for my rough soldier ways. We have taken no such person, but you have most innocently told us what we much desired to know. Wherefore did you scorn our hospitality last evening? Was that also of compulsion?"
 
"Nay," says Philip, "but to keep my father's name clear of a most foul reproach. From the bottom of my heart I am Your Highness's enemy. I never cease to pray that all your purpose may miscarry. But you will not hang a Drayton and a cutthroat in one noose."
 
"I vow," cried the Prince, "you are all of one mould, you Draytons."
 
He seemed here to muse a while, and then begged Mr. Bentinck to give order that Mr. Royston be brought before him. And my heart very miserably sank in my bosom, for I remembered how, but a little while back, he had, in speaking of poor Ned, used the military title, saying "Captain," as if restoration to rank and honor were already in sight.
 
Mr. Bentinck soon returned, and not long after him came Ned with his guard, which, in obedience to a sign from the Prince, halted at the door, where they stood impassive with drawn swords.
 
"Come hither, sir," said His Highness; and Ned approaching, I saw that, although the passion was burnt out of him, and his face was worn and haggard, he still met with an eye unsubdued the glance of the man on whom his fate depended.
 
"Mr. Royston," said the Prince, "I have heard all this midnight mystery. 'T is a brave tale, which, in my thinking, clears all therein involved of wicked design. But no tale, be it never so true, clears you, Mr. Royston, from the great fault of aiding my enemy there to escape. You know what in war-time is the law of military discipline. Have you anything to say, Mr. Royston, before this matter be ended?"
 
And Ned looked him straight in the eyes, and answered him with a very gentle fearlessness.
 
"I have little to say, Your Highness," he said; "and nothing of contention. One thing only I ask, if Your Highness mean to push the matter to extremity. Since I have never shown fear, I would die, if it please you, rather by bullet than the—the cord. Then, sire," he went on,—and this was the sole occasion upon which I did hear Captain Royston use to the Prince before his coronation the regal form of address,—"then, sire, shall I take with me no grudging to you."
 
Here following a little silence, I had much ado, for all my growing belief that the Prince did mean well by us all, to keep back the sobs that rose in my throat and caught at my breathing. And then came my lover's voice again. "I have failed in my duty. I had just drawn on the seeming lad that was the companion of my watch, because he would not let me follow the priest. He crossed swords with me, and I struck him in the neck,"—and here, I thought, His Highness's eyes lighted curiously upon me, and I grew warm with blushing as I thought of the black patch of plaister upon my bosom,—"and then I learned that it was no blood of man that I had drawn, but the drops fell from the soft flesh of a woman. And more I found that fatal night—that the woman was she that I did love well when she was but a little maid no higher than my sword-hilt,"—and here the man's hand went to his side, but found nothing,—"the sword, God's truth! that I must not wear! And then I learned why she would have the popish fellow escape. He was her brother, and she loved him, even as both did love the great old name. And I? I loved the maid, even the more that I had hurt her. And the man swore—not by his order, nor by his heretic bishop of Rome, but on his honorable lineage as a gentleman of England, to do you nor yours further hurt of any kind till his foot was set once more in France. It was hard to see so pretty a maid weep; harder, when the tears fell from eyes that had already forgiven the wound. Moreover, Your Highness, I did put faith in the man. Papist that he was, yet did he bear himself so as none could doubt his worth. I do but ask that, before I bear my punishment, the master I have ever served in a love hedged about with reverence and awe will put faith in my word that I had no will to wrong him, or to fail, as it seems fail I did, in the service that was due."
 
"For that I do believe you, sir," said the Prince; "yet can it not undo what is done."
 
While Ned was speaking, His Highness had seemed to my jealously watching eye not unmoved. He now laid his hand on Mr. Bentinck's arm, and drew that gentleman apart into the window which is nearest the door where Prue had played the eavesdropper. I had no intent to do the like, and it was more His Highness's fault than mine if he did not perceive that I stood so much nearer than the rest of the company that some words of his discourse with Mr. Bentinck were plainly audible to me. And, while their voices rose and fell in that murmured conference, the curtain that hangs before that little door was brushed aside, and M. de Rondiniacque, with his hat in his hand and a smile upon his lips at once merry, mocking, and triumphant, stood beside me.
 
"This is no plot, William," said the Prince,—"but a matter of one family." And there followed much that escaped my ear, until His Highness's voice rose with the words, "How think you, William? If we had this Francis—" and then dropped into the former murmuring.
 
"Had we the fat one," says Mr. Bentinck; "for this priest"—and at the word he twisted his head a little toward Philip, who stood by the hearth with Ned and my father—"this priest is too spare to make a meal of."
 
"Ay," said the Prince, "if we could but find this 'Marston,' and if it were made plain he had no ties here with these good people, we might well treat these late adventures with the largeness that safety can use."
 
And then much more from Mr. Bentinck that I did not hear, until he said that the good-will of such men as these was of much value, and ended with some words of Captain Royston's difficult dilemma of the past night.
 ............